


Sentimentality

by CherryFlight



Series: SWTOR: The Reflections Legacy [8]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alderaan Planetary Story, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22976386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryFlight/pseuds/CherryFlight
Summary: Abric's friend Flow has stuck by him even at his worst so far.  And now he's falling apart, and falling in with a bad crowd, and Abric doesn't know how to express his concerns in a way that will make it right, or if it even needs to be fixed.
Relationships: Male Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine/Male Smuggler, Male Jedi Knight | Hero of Tython & Male Sith Warrior, Male Jedi Knight | Hero of Tython & Male Smuggler
Series: SWTOR: The Reflections Legacy [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643305
Kudos: 2





	Sentimentality

Abric never went anywhere without his stealth generator active outside of secured areas. Fighting off enemy forces or hungry wildlife wasn’t his idea of a good time, and even less so with his Jedi friend so fragile lately. It was slow going to avoid detection, but he figured Flow wouldn’t have gone very far. Ever since their assault on Ulgo’s “pain factory”, though successful, his friend had been burdened and weary, and Abric knew better, this time, than to try to push him through it. He blamed himself for part of his fragility, after all, when he had taken that one last enemy life when Flow had practically begged him not to. He had seen, _felt_ too much death and that had been the last he could take, even though it belonged to the cause of all those dead. Apparently to the Force sensitive it made very little difference - or maybe it was just Flow, who always commented on how _alive_ densely populated planets like Nar Shaddaa and Coruscant were.

He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to feel death and suffering in a way more concrete and unbiased than normal empathy. Flow had been tense, on approaching the torturers’ factory, but had warning this time, he had steeled himself…but he’d never been present. And when they’d found the first set of cells and equipment, heard the Kiliks’ agonized screeches, heard the breaking of insect carapace and caught the stench of bleeding and neglected bodies. When Flow shivered, made sounds halfway between choking and crying, and had set his teeth and gone after the torture droids with desperate swiftness, a shouted plea for them to stop his battle cry…

Abric had said nothing. 

He had continued to throw himself into the fray, letting the loud, visible Jedi draw attention while he snuck up behind any foe that hadn’t met a lightsaber yet and bashed their skulls in with the weighted butt of his blaster, or took them down with flying fists from nearly literally nowhere. Just like always. Together they stood and shut the factory down. Together they refused to let anything like it happen again.

And yet, Flow’s strength had been temporary. He had followed him only partway through the path back and then told him he needed time to himself. He never needed time to himself. He thrived on having company. But Abric had to trust him with his own mental health, because he knew he couldn’t trust himself.

He could hear someone crying softly nearby. Creeping up the path to get a look, he saw Flow, laying atop a hill covered in beautiful flowers. Maybe he’d been trying to calm himself with its beauty. Maybe he’d been trying to meditate, though that rarely worked very well for him. He wondered if he should have insisted on staying by him. He reached down to his belt to deactivate his stealth field generator.

“Look alive, Flow!” Abric’s head jerked up at the sound of an Imperial-accented voice, just in time to see a blaze of red light zip up into one of the trees on that hill, followed by a dark shape plunging down, red lightsaber held high and ready to swing. Flow rolled upright and brought both lightsabers to bear, a protective golden cross before him that caught the Sith’s blade between them. With a shove, he pushed his opponent away, and Abric got a good look at him as he caught his balance with too-fluid ease. He was a Twi'lek, pale green skin stretched over a thin face, a jagged, improperly healed scar over his left cheek. Abric knew this Sith - he had separated Flow from him when they had met an Imperial boarding party aboard the luxury ship Esseles, and had apparently left an impression on Flow, because he seemed to look forward to meeting him, after a series of duels that separated them more often than he’d like on Nar Shaddaa and neither of them even _seeing_ one another despite landing on Tatooine at the same time, because Flow had spent all his time there (aside from tracking down whatever superweapon the Jedi had sent him after _that_ time) with the Sith.

Oberon was his name. Flow had told him as much. And he wouldn’t listen to reason, even after Abric had finally told someone after all these months of claiming to believe the lie everyone else did, about what really happened with his ex-husband. That he had been an Imperial spy. That he had left when it was convenient and used everything, even their relationship, to gather stars-know-what and send it stars-know-where. Logically, he knew that Flow could tell Oberon had no intention to kill him. But he’d seen Force powers fail that he didn’t think _could_ , and that bit of reassurance now felt emptier.

He deactivated his stealth field generator and drew his blaster, aiming it at the Sith. At the sound of the field fizzling out, the two Force-users turned, startled, to face him. Oberon’s eyes lit up in recognition, and his saber faded with a final hum. He held up both his hands, the sword returning to his belt in careful levitation, slow and deliberate for Abric to watch.

“Abric, please wait,” he said, his voice smooth, but betraying a waver of uncertainty. Flow either heard it or sensed more, and stepped between them. He deactivated his lightsabers, too, but watched him with fearful defiance. Don’t _make me hurt you,_ that look seemed to say.

Abric only lowered his blaster when Flow was the one on its other end. “My reputation precedes me,” he said. “Not that it’s hard when you’re dealing with my buddy here.”

“Don’t hurt him,” said Flow, voice still choked with tears. “I know you saw us fighting, but- I meant it, he doesn’t want to kill me. He’s my friend.”

“Flow…” Oberon sounded genuinely touched, and a bit concerned. It was hard to force himself to ignore it. He remembered how sincere Atir had been. His note of apology he’d left him, to let him know the truth - that he wasn’t dead, that he hadn’t defected - had said his love was real. It didn’t matter, he’d been telling himself for months. It didn’t matter and _this_ shouldn’t matter, because he couldn’t let Flow get burned the same way he had. He’d suffered enough from his action or inaction already. _This_ time, he would protect him.

“Bad idea, bud,” Abric said. “You can’t trust an Imp, even if they say they’re different. Even if they act different. Atir was different as they come, but you _know_ what happened.” He inclined his head to address Oberon over Flow’s shoulder. “What’s your endgame, kid? What do you want with my buddy?”

But instead of answering him, Oberon drew back in open surprise. He’d been caught off guard. “I’m sorry, did you say _Atir_?”

“Yeah, why? Wait …he _did_ send you, didn’t he?”

He’d known it. He’d known it all along. Oberon had shown too specific interest in Flow before he’d ever done anything of note. Sure, they’d discovered there might have been spies on Tython, but as far as Abric knew, Flow had simply been promoted under somewhat unusual circumstances. Nothing that would cause a Sith to single him out and certainly not like _this_. He remembered Atir encouraging him and Flow to become friends. Was he trying to get information on the Jedi Order? Was he trying to soften the blow of his future abandonment by setting up a solid friendship? Or had he really been concerned for Flow’s social development, based on a single description, as he’d said? Maybe it was a mix of all three. Maybe whatever he’d found on the Jedi through the eyes of an awkward, talkative Padawan had been useful after all, and Oberon was here as a spy by proxy too, completely unwitting.

“I’m not surprised his ex-husband of five years recognizes signs of his involvement,” Oberon said, his tone leveling out to deadpan. “I _am_ surprised that he completely and utterly failed to take an alias for his one prior job _and Intelligence still hired him._ ” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I love him like true family but _really_. You two will have to excuse me,” He turned to leave, and Abric found himself unable to say anything or raise his blaster. There were too many things to unpack in that statement. Too many revelations. _He failed to take an alias_ …he hadn’t been working for the Empire’s Intelligence service from the start?

“Flow, I can see you’ve been crying, and I can feel your pain. I- I trust your friendship with Abric. But if you need me, the Force will always know where to find me, so long as you’re the one asking. Good luck…my friend.”

Abric remained frozen, unable to even comprehend the soft sincerity in Oberon’s parting words, in Flow halfway reaching out as if to beg him not to go. There was too much in his mind already. Further proof of their friendship was background noise. The only reason he’d absorbed what he had was the mention of his name.

“Are you going to be all right?” Flow asked him quietly, suddenly right in front of him. Abric blinked, refocusing, and realized there were tears in his eyes. He swiped them away with the back of his hand. He had to be the strong one now.

“Are you?” he asked right back. Flow was under a lot of stress already. He shouldn’t make it worse. The Jedi gave him a shaky, tearful smile, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Lingering self-consciousness aside, that nagging voice in the back of his head that said hugs were too sentimental for the rugged personality he was supposed to be, he returned it, holding on protectively while Flow let his tears loose on his shoulder. Sentimental or not, he knew they _had_ to make things better.

“I don’t know,” Flow said, finally. “But I think we’re all more okay than you think.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Natirru gave his real given name like a fool. Yes, there's a reason for that. Yes, I will eventually write it.


End file.
